


A Second Shot

by whopooh



Category: Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries
Genre: Alternate Ending, Caring Jack, Episode: s02e12 Unnatural Habits, F/M, First Kiss, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Jack has a lot to deal with, MFMMwhumptober, Whumptober, angsty Jack, but it goes in a different way, hurt Phryne, yes Aunt P shows up in this alternate ending too
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-06
Updated: 2018-10-06
Packaged: 2019-07-26 00:11:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,680
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16208603
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whopooh/pseuds/whopooh
Summary: On the ship in "Unnatural Habits", Jack fires his gun. But so does Sidney Fletcher.For the whumptober prompt “I can’t walk”.





	A Second Shot

When Jack sees Phryne on the deck of the ship, his anger dissipates, transforming into cold fear. 

He has been seething with anger for most of the night; he has fought down several men, and he has ordered Collins to secure the Chief Commissioner to a pole with handcuffs – and the lad did it, without an ounce of hesitation. The final fuel for his fury is finding Phryne’s discarded lockpick – realising she is there, probably held captive, while Sanderson denies it. He rushes to find her, but she finds him first, having managed to escape – God knows how. She throws herself into the fight. And when Sidney Fletcher tries to bolt, she follows him.

That is when it happens.

Jack runs after her, his heart hammering in a fast-paced rhythm. He comes out on the deck and sees Miss Fisher – she is down, crouching on the board, Sidney Fletcher looming above her, aiming his gun at her. Jack’s heart leaps straight into his throat.

He sees the expression on the man’s face turn into a cruel snarl, a victorious look of “Now I’ve got you”. Fletcher is pointing his gun straight at the one person Jack needs to make it out of this mess unscathed, the one person who holds his heart so tightly in her hands she could make it snap in a moment’s time. If she wanted to – or if something were to happen to her.

There is no room for hesitation. Jack fires. 

But his shot isn’t the only one. There is a flash of light in the tip of Sydney Fletcher’s gun too.

Fletcher staggers to the side and falls over the railing; there is a splash as he hits the water. But the sound is as distant as if it happened in another world – a world of no consequence to Jack Robinson whatsoever. In his world, there is only one thing that matters: Phryne Fisher, sprawled on the deck of the ship, bleeding profusely. 

“Phryne!” Jack barks out, running towards her. Everything seems to happen too slowly, too late, the world somehow muted. _“Phryne!”_

No answer.

Her silence and stillness frighten him – Phryne Fisher is never this quiet. It’s an insult to everything he knows and believes in. He sees blood – far too much blood – forming a puddle on the deck beside her. The paleness of her face scares him.

“Phryne!” 

Finally, he’s there and crouches down beside her. She doesn’t move, doesn’t give any sign that she’s heard him, and he wants to just shake her and tell her that she _must_ be alright, that nothing else is acceptable. He reaches out his hand to touch her, but he can’t, it’s shaking too violently, adrenalin and fear pounding through his body. She finally makes a movement, turning slightly to him, but she can’t seem to focus her eyes properly.

“Jack?” she says in a whisper. She raises her hand slowly and catches his hovering hand; he has never seen such a weak movement from Miss Fisher in all the time they’ve known each other.

She tries to move, but grimaces. 

“Don’t,” is all he manages to croak out as he finally puts his hand on her, trying to keep her in place. “Stay still.”

“I… I can’t move,” she says, her voice incredulous, like she can’t believe that she – she! Phryne Fisher! – wouldn’t be able to do what she wants, use her own body in whatever way it pleases her. “I can’t… walk.”

His breathing constricts as he sees the fear in her eyes, its twin residing in his own breast. He cannot fathom this is happening. But the blood is real; Phryne’s pained face is real. He hears steps and turns to see Hugh Collins. 

“Collins!” he barks. “Miss Fisher is hurt. Make sure someone calls an ambulance, _immediately_. I will stay with her.”

Collins takes in the blood and is instantly in motion. “Yes, Sir!” he shouts as he runs off to find someone – probably heading for Bert and Cec, who can localise a telephone to call for help.

Jack’s brain latches onto the situation and he looks her over more properly. “He hit you here?” he asks. “In the thigh? One shot?”

Phryne nods weakly. 

“That’s a lot of blood,” Jack says, worried. He grabs his coat and takes it off, throwing it away so he can get hold of his suit jacket. It will have to do. He presses the jacket to her leg, applying pressure while trying not to hurt her too much. She shivers under his hands. Without preamble, she passes out, her body quietly going limp beneath him. 

Her lips are nearly black in the moonlight, contrasted against the paleness of her face beneath the black beret. She looks perfect – like a doll, like she has just chosen this outfit and put on her lipstick, and not like she’s been held captive, escaped, and fought against men twice her size. 

They had been so close, hadn’t they? So close to… something. And now, it’s like the car crash all over again. Except this time, it’s real. She is hurt, she is bleeding out beneath him, this is not something he has conjured up in his head. 

He has done this kind of first aid before, of course – he’s been a soldier and a policeman for close to twenty years – but he doesn’t remember feeling this nauseous. Miss Fisher is under his hands and he’s afraid she’ll bleed out while he can do nothing but watch. He worries the bullet hit a main artery; why would there be this much blood otherwise? He feels panic trying to overtake him and struggles to keep it at bay. He keeps up the pressure, willing her to stop bleeding so copiously, willing her to wake up and tease him, willing her to just be _alright_. 

After an eternity or a few minutes, he sees her eyelids flutter open again. Her eyes strain to focus. 

“Just lie still, and everything will be alright, Miss Fisher,” he mumbles, kneeling beside her, his own limbs suddenly heavy and weary. “All will be well, we just need to get you to a doctor, and it will be like this never happened. They will patch you up in no time, good as new. I promise.” His voice falters at that last word. He picks up again. “There’s no need to be upset. This is just a little blood. Everything is under control.” 

He realises he is babbling – babbling and making baseless promises. Using words as a shield against the very real danger of being wrong. 

Words seem to be the only thing he has left.

“Jack,” she says, struggling to be heard over his reassurances, but he keeps babbling.

She reaches out her hand and puts a finger, still clad in a black glove, over his lips. 

“Shut up, Jack.” 

He goes entirely silent, watching her over that outreached hand, noticing the faint smile on her lips. 

“Shut up, Jack, and kiss me.”

His eyes widen. As much as he always wants to kiss her, there are few things farther from his mind right now.

“I know this is the wrong time, but just in case…” Phryne starts, her eyes large in the poor lighting, her breathing shallow, “just in case it’s our last chance; will you just kiss me?”

Jack swallows, and he feels his eyes starting to brim over with tears. But he can’t break down – not now, not when Phryne needs his steady presence. He pushes down the lump in his throat.

“Please?” she whispers. 

He hesitates for a moment. It feels utterly wrong, kissing her here on this ship of horror, with her blood staining his hands and his jacket. He can hear noises and his brain registers it’s probably someone fishing up Fletcher from the water. He looks at her – her black beret still on, her eyes searching his, her body still. He gives her a small nod.

Of course he can kiss her. If he can’t do much else, at least he can do this. He bends down, awkwardly so as to keep pressure on her wound, nearing his lips to hers. A kiss, _in case it’s our last chance_. He is so close he can feel her breath against his lips – she is very much breathing, and he has to hold onto that – and he inhales in preparation. 

“Miss! Inspector!” 

The frantic voice is Dorothy Williams’, and she is followed by two men Jack has never seen before. “The ambulance is here!” 

Jack rises quickly, slightly embarrassed, making room for the men to do their work as fast as possible. He knows speed is important. Still, he feels awful, leaving her side without another word, and without even managing that kiss. He really seems to be good for nothing when it comes to matters of the heart. Even when it may be the last chance.

The men carry her away, briskly. It is all over so quickly, and Jack feels very, very slow. The last he sees of her is the top of her head, beret still on. 

When they have left, the ship is eerily silent. He looks at his discarded suit jacket, smeared red with her blood. He picks it up, together with the coat he threw away. After some hesitation, he puts the coat on, over his vest and shirtsleeves, not noticing that he manages to make it lopsided.

“Are you alright, Inspector?” Miss Williams asks; he hadn’t noticed she was still there. He looks at her without answering. It’s like he is a balloon and has just lost all his air.

“I’m sorry, that is a silly question. Of course you aren’t,” Miss Williams says matter-of-factly. Then she grabs him by his arm, almost like Miss Fisher usually does, and in a way that Miss Williams never, ever has. Her eyes are large and sympathetic; he suspects he looks utterly lost.

“Let’s get you home, Inspector. You mustn’t stay here.”

Jack realises it has all gone still around him. They had a case, where is everyone? He supposes the captives have been brought out, and the culprits have been apprehended, and Fletcher fished out and taken to dry somewhere. Sanderson has probably been released from his pole. He hasn’t noticed anything of this, so deeply entrenched in his own fear. 

All that is left is Miss Williams and him. When they walk down the plank he sees there are two more figures there, waiting for them by a car. 

“Constable Collins asked us to wait for you,” Cec says, touching his fingers to his cap as if the eerie silence somehow demands an extra polite approach. 

“He went to the station with the scum,” Bert adds, spitting out the last word.

“Thank you, Cec, Bert,” Miss Williams says, giving them a weak smile. 

Jack doesn’t say anything. He’s unsure if he is able to speak, so he doesn’t even try. Miss Williams manoeuvres him towards the backseat of the cab, and soon he finds himself sitting next to a calm and capable Miss Williams, who attempts small talk with him.

“We’ll get you home, Inspector, and you can have a good cup of tea.” Her voice is straining to sound normal. “Perhaps you even have something stronger at home. And then a good night’s sleep.” A thought seems to hit her. “Oh, where do you live, Inspector?”

Jack looks at her, struck dumb before he realises he has to answer her, that she is asking him a question and that this is his life now, being taken care of by young Miss Williams while he feels like he is unravelling. After a long pause, he mumbles his address, and she passes it on to the cabbies.

Jack glances out the window. He doesn’t know if he can face his own, silent home, but he also doesn’t know where else he could go. Wardlow is out of the question, of course. Rosie is probably at her sister’s by now. Even City South, his haven during so many private tempests over the years, is an impossible place: the place where George Sanderson worked, and where Miss Fisher has left her mark on every detail in his office.

A thought strikes him.

“Miss Fisher! I need to go to the hospital.” 

“There is nothing you can do there right now, Inspector. You’d do much better go home and sleep,” Miss Williams says.

“Yair,” Bert interjects. “After we called the ambulance we called Doctor MacMillan too. She said she would go there immediately. Miss Fisher is in good hands.”

Jack nods compliantly, looking down on his own, still bloody, hands. They’re clutching the equally bloodied jacket. He is in no state to put up a fight. 

Before he knows it, they’re outside his house. After a while he realises he’s supposed to exit the car. He fumbles and manages to open the door, then steps out.

“Thank you, Miss Williams, this was most thoughtful of you,” he says politely.

Miss Williams looks at him speculatively. 

“Are you sure you can make it inside on your own, Inspector?” she says. She looks doubtful, but also like she doesn’t wish to trespass completely on his private matters. 

“Of course,” he says, trying to wave them off.

“Show me your key, do you have it?”

Jack looks at her, surprised to be treated more like a child than an adult by this very young girl, who not such a long time ago was having trouble using the telephone. 

“Do I have it?”

“Do you have your key? Please check for it.”

Jack pats his pockets, to no avail. In the end, he realises they are in the jacket and not in his coat; after some fumbling, he manages to produce it.

“Now, open your door,” Miss Williams presses on. 

Jack does as he’s told, and finally Miss Williams seems to relax a little bit. 

“Well done, Inspector. Please get some rest. It’s been a long day.”

With that, Cec starts the car and they drive off down the street. 

Jack enters his house and closes the door, not sure what to do when alone. After a minute of staring blankly into the house, his exhaustion overcomes him, and he starts to shiver. Gasping for breath, he cries into his hands, his sobs so overwhelming he’s afraid he may vomit. The full ordeal of the case, and then the sight of Miss Fisher, bleeding, weak, and her eyes… her eyes when she asked him to kiss her. And he didn’t even manage to give her that.

He doesn’t know how badly hurt she is, he doesn’t know anything. A shot like that could go either way, depending on where it hit. The only thing he knows is how it feels to have a large ball of fear in his stomach, tightly knit, and no way to get rid of it. He stumbles into his bedroom and peels off his coat before collapsing onto his bed, face first. 

 

**

 

Jack wakes up by the sun shining into his bedroom. There is a blissful moment when he doesn’t remember his world has been turned upside down. But the fact he’s sleeping with his clothes on, and on top of the doona, tips him off. When he looks at them, his hands are covered with dried blood. The memories from the night before hit him like a punch to his stomach, bereaving him of air.

 _Phryne._

He sits up on his bed, resting his face in both hands.

Then he pulls himself together.

He heads to the bathroom. First, he cleans his hands, hard, until the skin stings, making sure he removes all the bloodstains. Then he allows himself a long shower. He fights with his curls, vehemently, using more pomade than usual to tame them. He needs his exterior to be controlled today. He needs to feel normal. He needs to patch up that hole in his chest that threatens to open and eat him alive. He fishes out new clothes from his wardrobe. He’ll have his blue suit today, and a red and blue tie. 

He realises he should ask someone how she is, but he doesn’t dare. If it comes to the worst, he doesn’t want to know too soon. If he hasn’t heard it, it hasn’t happened, and in some way, she is still alive. He shakes his head at himself, knowing this is faulty thinking, but too tired to change it.

When he has managed to put on his underwear and a shirt, the telephone rings. He is clumsy, almost dropping it when he answers.

“Inspector!” a voice says. Collins. He tries to breathe normally.

“Yes, Collins?”

“Dottie asked me to telephone and tell you they have managed to stabilize Miss Fisher. She will survive.”

All blood seems to leave Jack’s head. He breathes out in relief. In a flash, his numbness vanishes, and he is instead flooded with a rush of emotions, overheating him. He can’t stand upright, his body slowly sliding down against the wall until he is sitting on his own hallway floor. “Hello?” he hears in the receiver. “Inspector? Are you still there?” 

“Yes, Collins,” he finally manages to say, though it sounds like a ghost of his voice. He realises he is crying. He rubs his eyes. “I’m here.”

The relief is so palpable, and for some twisted reason, it’s even more unbearable than his fears. He doesn’t know how to control relief, how to keep it in check. It is threatening to drown him. He inhales audibly – it comes out as a sob.

“You are also ordered to not come to the station. You are meant to rest,” Collins continues. “They are sending me home, too.”

After hanging up, Jack stays seated on the floor for quite some time. He stares in front of him, trying to understand what he was told. She is safe. He slowly rises and returns to his bedroom to don that suit of armour. He bathes his eyes with cold water and digs up his second-best coat, one he hasn’t used in ages, from the wardrobe in the hallway. He checks his appearance in the mirror, finding it odd to see himself in this almost forgotten shell. 

Then he is out the door.

 

**

 

Phryne is sitting in her hospital bed; she has her favourite black nightgown on, the one with the fighting cocks on the back, and a cup of tea in her hands. She was treated for her wound immediately; then she was filled with painkillers, earning her a few hours of sleep. She’s still in pain, and she feels a bit wobbly, but mostly she feels relieved. 

Mac has explained to her exactly in which ways she has been lucky, and exactly how close it was this time. She spit like a cat every time she had to take Fletcher’s name in her mouth. She also scolded Phryne for being too reckless but fell silent when her friend gave a more detailed account of the young girls’ fates if they would have been shipped away. 

Now she sits at Phryne’s bedside, looking at her friend – still far too pale but not as weak as she was when she came in – and reaches out a hand to caress her cheek.

“You foolhardy, stubborn woman,” she says, giving a smile that is suspiciously emotional. “You always have to rush into the greatest dangers, don’t you?”

“You wouldn’t have it any other way, Mac, and you know it.”

Phryne’s smile is bright and cheeky. Mac rolls her eyes, but she doesn’t protest. She rises and straightens herself to her fullest length.

“Full rest and no excuses about anything,” she says, rather sternly. “I allowed you to have your own clothes because Miss Williams brought them to you, but I draw the line there. Visitors are welcome, but no over-excitement.”

Phryne snorts.

“I can’t imagine how anyone could be over-excited in a room like this.” 

“If anyone finds a way, I’m sure it’s you,” Mac retorts and turns to the door. “Oh look, here comes a way now. Inspector! I didn’t know you were coming. Please, come in, I was just about to leave.” 

Mac holds out her hand in welcome, and Jack takes a few steps into the room. 

“You will see to it that she doesn’t try to climb out any windows, won’t you?” 

They smile at each other, knowing full well the exaggeration isn’t as large as one would think.

“I promise, Doctor MacMillan,” Jack answers, giving her a small nod as she strides out the door.

And then they are alone.

“Miss Fisher,” he says, simply, taking off his hat and placing it on a peg by the door. His face is set like a pile of stone, his eyes large, his jaw set. Is he angry? Happy to see her? Upset about again fearing she had died? Annoyed at her melodramatic request the night before? 

She can’t read him and seeing him just _look_ at her makes her nervous. She is not used to feeling this vulnerable, and it has nothing to do with the state of her leg.

This will not do. She decides to go for light-hearted.

“Jack! To what do I owe the pleasure?” she quips.

“No pleasure, only business, I assure you,” Jack answers, but a small smile in the corner of his lips belies his statement.

“Oh?” Phryne says, her eyes glittering in relief. “That sounds like a sad state of affairs.”

Jack just looks at her, his smile growing slightly broader, and her heart clenches painfully. 

She is so happy to see him, and it seems he shares the sentiment. The thought makes her face flush a little bit. She eyes him as he moves to remove his coat and hang it by the hat.

“That is not your usual coat,” she remarks. 

He looks at it, a little frayed on its sleeves, and turns serious. 

“No, it’s my second best one. The other one got…” – he pauses, flicking his eyes towards her – “… blood on it.”

She inhales. “Oh.” So that’s the way he’s going to play it: straight to the point. 

His eyes search hers. “You lost so much blood, Phryne,” he says, his voice unsteady. He swallows, hard. “But Collins says you’re fine.” 

It might seem like a statement, but it’s really a question. She nods. 

“Mac assures me I will live, no matter what the villains of Melbourne might prefer.” Her smile is bright, but also a little uncertain, still unsure of him.

He moves to sit in the chair beside her bed. She sees his hand move, and for a second, she thinks he might reach out and take hers, but he stops his movement and just rests it in his own lap. After a silence, he picks up the thread. 

“So, how are you feeling?”

She hesitates for a moment. 

“Not very well, if you want the truth. The leg hurts like hell, and I can’t walk. Won’t be able to walk for weeks. When I’m allowed to, I will still be weak, and need to build up the strength of the leg again.” 

She looks away, swallowing down a sudden wave of self-pitying tears. Then she turns to him, her smile rueful.

“And it will take even longer until I can use my favourite shoes for running after suspects in an alley in the middle of the night.” She sighs. “It’s absolutely awful. But considering how it could have ended, I feel fantastic, of course.” 

His eyes focus on her completely. She has always found his intensity alluring; now it makes her want to cry. 

“I’m sorry, Phryne,” he says.

He places his hand over hers, finally, warm and reassuring. She has a flashback to the evening before – to the way his hand had shaken, the way he was falling apart in front of her. She shudders, trying to expel the image from her head; when she looks at him, he regards her curiously.

It is he who breaks the silence.

“It’s a very strange thing, to imagine Phryne Fisher sitting still,” he says, his voice much softer than the banter she believes he is aiming for. “But I’m sure you will find a way to wreak havoc in no time.”

She smiles. He seems to steel himself.

“You scared me half to death yesterday,” he continues, looking away. He pauses. “But you also made me realise it’s no use running away from that.” His eyes return to her. “Running away from you.” 

She inhales, her eyes flitting between his eyes and his tempting lips. 

“That is a new development,” she says. “I never realised what you needed was me being in _more_ danger.”

He rolls his eyes. “Don’t go getting any ideas, Miss Fisher.” 

He looks down at their joined hands, before he again turns to her. 

“I feel we have some… unfinished business. From yesterday,” he says. “You asked me to do something, because it might have been our last chance. Do you… do you still want me to? Even if it’s more like a first?”

She can see he is holding his breath.

“Are you sure you are willing to risk it?” she teases, though there is an element of truth to her statement and they both know it.

“Well, it’s not like you can run away from me, at least,” he retorts, making her smile.

She doesn’t reply. Instead she leans forward, her mouth only inches away from his. She tilts her head, contemplating him. “You were prepared to let me go, unkissed,” she says.

He looks like he wants to retort, but he has nothing. Instead he puts his hands in her hair, slowly, caressing her.

“Never again,” he whispers, and closes the gap. 

His lips are warm, soft, and demanding. She kisses him back as if her life depends on it. The intensity is overwhelming – to finally have him this close, to feel his kisses and hear him sigh into the kiss. He hardly moves, cautious to not hurt her leg, but he isn’t cautious with his heart, pouring it into her, keeping nothing back.

Not even an exclamation from the doorway can stop them from kissing – not even when it belongs to Phryne’s aunt. Aunt Prudence has come to see her beloved and reckless niece, but she wasn’t expecting this. She stands there, crestfallen, not able to do anything but shuffle while she waits for the kiss to end.

She must wait for quite some time. Phryne looks like she is going to devour the poor Inspector and Prudence wonders if she has seen such an indecent kiss in her life. When the Inspector finally withdraws from her niece – his eyes unfocused, his cheeks flushed, a small, bright smile grazing his lips – Prudence clears her throat again, loudly.

Inspector Robinson looks up with a start, letting go of Phryne and turning even redder.

Prudence purses her lips.

“It’s very early, Inspector,” she says, pointedly.

“Yes. Yes, it is,” he manages to reply. He collects himself and turns to Phryne again, a small grin on his lips. “But I’m glad we cleared up that detail, Miss Fisher.” 

She grins in response. 

“So am I, Jack. So am I.”

He is lost in her eyes, helpless to do anything but return her delighted expression; after a while he manages to break free.

“I will leave you to your aunt, Miss Fisher. I’ll come back later.”

“Please do, Inspector,” she says, caressing his lapel with her hand. “I feel we have more things to… clear up.”

He rises from her side and goes to retrieve his hat and coat.

“Good bye, Mrs Stanley,” he says politely, nodding to her. “Miss Fisher.”

As he walks away in the corridor, he feels like he has butterflies in his stomach and wings on his heels: elated, incredulous, blissful. The last word he hears before he walks into the outside is a flustered _“Phryne!”_

He smiles into the sunshine. Some things, he muses, simply never changes.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much to Fire_Sign, who talked through this whole idea with me, and to aurora_australis, who beta read. You are the best!


End file.
